


avalanche

by orphan_account



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy thinks that he ought to be better at this by now, better at ignoring Dave when he gets a little too close, better at keeping his eyes turned forward instead of forever left or right or whatever direction Dave’s in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	avalanche

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://kaia-kyrial.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kaia-kyrial.livejournal.com/)**kaia_kyrial** for the super quick beta. Title and cut text from Avalanche by Mr. Cook.
> 
> This is another old fic, brought over from LJ

 

 

 

Andy thinks that he ought to be better at this by now, better at ignoring Dave when he gets a little too close, better at keeping his eyes turned forward instead of forever left or right or whatever direction Dave’s in. It was easier, before, when Andy was the one projecting for the crowd. It was simpler to focus on someone out there, to catch the eye of some random no name anonymous in the push and pull of bodies, easier to keep his focus forward when all the focus was on him instead of Dave.

Of course Dave has always attracted attention, some sort of magnetic pull pulsing out of him when he hits the stage and sets his fingers against steel and wood, his mouth against the microphone just shy of obscene. It was easier to deal with in small increments, instead of full force tripled by the return wave of the crowd, a never ending cycle whirling through until the whole world feels like the tunnel of a tornado, Dave at it’s eye watching the chaos spin on. It’s harder, with the spotlight full on, a whole team of stylists dedicated to making his jeans fit just so, his eyes darkened just enough around the edges to pull in anyone who’s managed to resist the siren pull of his voice, gravel mixed velvet pouring down the length of their spine.

Andy’s never been good at resisting anything.

Still, he tries to keep his focus, dips his head down toward the keyboard, his back to the color and light drifting into his shadowy corner. He lets his hair fall into his eyes, lets it grow out until the ends curl against his collar and hides whichever direction his gaze may wander. If he can’t resist temptation totally, maybe he can at least hide his reaction, forever thankful for the darker tone of his skin and the powder the makeup girl insists on dusting across his cheeks, concentrate, concentrate, _concentrate_ ; don’t break this impossible chance for an even more impossible daydream.

He thinks Neal knows, maybe, something in the lyrics he puts down on paper. He thinks Alexis knows, probably, she knows him better than anyone, better than himself some days. He thinks Lily knows, surely, crystal clear through the lens of her camera, his heart printed out on photo proof paper tinged in red light.

He hopes Dave doesn’t know, waits for the world to crash down around him.

They keep moving forward, each song rolling into the next like tidal waves, pulling him farther from shore, his body sliding closer to center on instinct, sense memory, only the weight of his bones keeping him in his place. Even with his eyes turned away he knows exactly where Dave is on stage, knows exactly when to lift his mouth and slide into harmony. He knows when Dave steps too close, can’t help but turn his eyes up to meet him halfway, falling into gravity again. 


End file.
